Unbreakable Bond
by aficionada-de-libros
Summary: Someone with an unbreakable bond to John returns to his life, leaving him more vulnerable than ever before. In a good way. – Interconnected AU tags/missing scenes to episodes of seasons 1-3. John-centric, but will feature the whole team as the story progresses. Rated T for a reason, but nothing worse than in the show.
1. Resurrection

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OC and the ideas for the episode tags/missing scenes. No copyright infringement intended. Direct quotes from the show are marked as such. Thank you, dear writers, producers etc., for letting me play with John, Harold and the others. I promise to put them back (relatively) unharmed.**

**A/N: This story is AU as it introduces an original main character. That being said, I tried to stay true to the rest of the canon as much as possible. With the exception of chapter 1, these are tags/missing scenes to episodes of seasons 1-3. Enjoy.**

Chapter 1 (Pre-series)

**Resurrection**

"Bloody bum at the door."

"Language, please, Mr Miller. Our patients may live on the fringes of society, but they're still human beings who deserve to be treated with as much respect as any other person", the doctor at the reception desk admonished the male nurse quietly but sternly. Pete Miller was new on the team, and Dr. Silverstein already thought about letting him go. His callous attitude was as disturbing as his impressive physique was helpful in this harsh environment.

"With all due respect, Dr. Silverstein, but if you'd just take a look yourself ..." Pete moved a step to the right, allowing the doctor a good look at the roughed-up homeless man who was being held up by an older, much smaller, slighter homeless woman. She was softly talking to him, pressing a bloodied piece of tissue against a heavily bleeding wound on the side of his head.

"Oh." In this case, Pete had been more literal than sarcastic in his announcement, she conceded. "Put him in #3. I'll be by in a minute."

_Monday morning – not the usual time for beaten-up street dwellers_, Dr. Silverstein mused while finishing her entries in the chart she was holding. She quickly downed the rest of her tea and made her way to treatment room 3. "Good morning", she greeted the unequal pair kindly. "I'm Dr. Hannah Silverstein. Would you like to tell me your names?"

"I'm Joan. This is John. He needs help," explained the older woman.

"Hi Joan. Hello John. Can you tell me what happened?" Hannah asked while donning gloves and pulling up a rolling table with some equipment.

"He got beat up defendin' me from some muggers," Joan explained with tears in her eyes. "If it weren't for him ..."

"It's just a scratch." Hearing the man speak up for the first time gave Hannah pause. His voice was the exact opposite of what she had expected from a man of his size, stature and appearance – low and gentle, almost soothing, and just a tiny bit husky.

"Well then, let's get that scratch seen to," she replied calmly and stepped in front of the man. Standing in his personal space, the young doctor found herself surprised for a second time. While he looked shaggy and smelt of cheap liquor, something was distinctly missing: the ripe odour of weeks without washing. If she had to guess, she'd say he had had a shower and a change of clothes no more than four or five days ago. Splitting her work time between a big city hospital and this free clinic most certainly had given her some interesting skills, an acute sense of smell being just one of them.

"Did you pass out at any time?" she asked routinely, pulling out a penlight and putting a gentle hand to the man's forehead to tilt his head a little.

Then she froze, hardly hearing the quiet response of "No, ma'am."

"Maura," she absently addressed the nurse by her side, "could you please take Joan to the waiting area while I treat our patient? Make sure she gets a hot coffee and something to eat, please." Her own voice sounded foreign in her ears, and very far away.

"Sure thing, Doc," the nurse replied cheerfully and led the woman out of the treatment room.

Once she heard the door close, Hannah took a deep, steadying breath. _Not possible. No way. _"How old are you, John?" she asked as casually as possible. Experience had taught her that patients here – unless they were teenagers trying to cover up an embarrassing situation – might lie about their names, but rarely about their ages.

"Thirty-eight, no allergies, no pre-existing conditions," John replied with a light smirk. His diction revealed what Hannah had already suspected: this man was relatively new to the streets, and obviously had a well-educated background. _No._

Hannah rallied enough to continue her examination. "Your pupils are a little sluggish, though I guess a blood test would tell us that your little 'scratch' is not the only reason for that, right?"

The man's lips drew into a straight line and he only blinked in response. "That's what I thought. So, no painkillers for you right now." She went on to have a closer look at the head wound. "This is one nasty gash," she commented, flushed the area and carefully dabbed it dry with some gauze. "But not from a blow to the head. Did this happen when you went down in the fight?"

Her patient's eyes slightly narrowed at that. "Stumbled against a wall. Must have hit a ledge somewhere," he offered.

"I'll have to put in a few stitches, but nothing major. – I'm not going to insult you by asking about headaches, but did or do you experience any dizziness, nausea, vomiting?"

"No, none of that."

"All right then." She turned around, found the suture kit and quickly, skilfully closed the wound with a few stitches.

Her left hand lingering against the back of his neck where it had come to rest, she found she couldn't move. She didn't even notice she was staring into his eyes – _those eyes!_ – until he softly asked, "Is everything all right, Dr. Silverstein?"

When Hannah snapped out of her stupor, she found John catching her eyes and holding her gaze. "I'm sorry. I guess ... well, frankly, you remind me of someone ... someone I haven't seen in a very long time."

John seemed to ponder that. "Bad memories?" he asked.

A small smile appeared on Hannah's lips, tingeing her blue-and-grey eyes with a warm glow. "No. All good memories."

"Oh." The tall man seemed surprised, even taken aback, and his eyes screamed the question that he couldn't ask out loud: _How can a dirty, smelly, more-than-half drunk bum remind a beautiful young woman of someone good?_

Without thinking Hannah continued: "My brother. He was a soldier. I lost him many years ago. You remind me of him."

At that, John paled considerably. He swallowed once, twice, couldn't find his voice and suddenly felt his heart clenching painfully in his chest.

Following an impulse Hannah pulled out her wallet and produced a slightly tattered photograph. Sitting down next to John on the exam table, she showed it to him. "That's him. That's my brother."

The hitching breath next to her, the trembling fingers gingerly reaching for the photo, convinced her she had been right all along.

"What happened to your brother?" The question was barely audible. John stared at the two people in the photo, a teenage boy and a girl just old enough to have started school, sitting on a horse, both with the same raven-black hair and blue-and-grey eyes, one of the boy's arms protectively curled around the girl, holding the reins with his other hand.

"Deployed abroad, never came back. I was told he was missing, presumed dead."

John had always prided himself on being able to keep a straight face under any circumstances. Not now. He slowly turned around to face Hannah, and the anguish in his eyes was like a punch in her solar plexus. "You're not dead," she whispered, tears spilling from her eyes. "Dear God, you're alive!"


	2. Stop Running

_A/N: Thank you everyone who read, reviewed and followed, especially the guest reviewers to whom I couldn't reply individually. Here's chapter 2. Starting with this one, the chapters will be episode tags or missing scenes. __Really__ AU, and a teensy bit non-canon because I envisioned a somewhat more tragic death for John's father considering the depth of emotion displayed in 3x11 "Lethe". Also, disclaimer still applies: I don't own POI and never will, but I'm definitely having a lot of fun with this!_

**Stop Running (I/1 Pilot)**

He had run. Like a coward, he had run – out of the room, out of the clinic, just away, as far away as possible, as quickly as his alcohol-impeded legs would carry him. He had heard her following him, calling his name, tearfully, desperately, but somehow he had managed to outrun her. Her voice, however, still rang in his ears. He needed to get rid of her voice, of her face, of ... _her._

_She _was just another person he had failed. Oh no, he'd never had a shadow of a doubt that she was the girl in the picture, his baby sister Hannah. If nothing else, her eyes were a dead giveaway. _Not dead. Very much alive. And in that, he had failed her even more._

Their parents had both died within weeks of each other: first their father – a decorated Marine – in a tragic training accident, and soon after their mother, from the grief that her damaged heart couldn't take. She had deteriorated quickly, leaving them orphaned at sixteen and eight years, respectively. There were no relatives, so both of them had landed in the foster system, separated. Keeping in touch was hard, but they managed. Their foster families were far from ideal, so on his eighteenth birthday, John had applied for guardianship for Hannah. It was denied, of course, but he tried again and again ... until one day, Hannah disappeared without a trace. Too soon, the case ran cold – not due to lack of insistence on John's part. He, the police and their father's teammates had left no stone unturned, but it was like she had fallen off the face of the earth. Finally, their father's best friend had managed to ascertain that she was alive but in witness protection, out of reach forever. He had also taken John under his wings, helping him find a place in the Armed Forces and make his way through officer training.

"_Dear God, you're alive."_ The scene had been on repeat in his head ever since he had stumbled out of the door of that blasted free clinic.

_Her arms came around him in a bone-crushing hug without the slightest hesitation, and his arms had reciprocated seemingly of their own volition. Holding his baby sister against his chest, feeling her hot tears seep through the thick layers of his tattered, less-than-clean clothing and warm his clammy skin, he had made the mistake of allowing himself to just feel. While she kept whispering his name, something took hold of his heart and squeezed, hard, painfully. Suddenly he couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't think. Incapable of drawing a breath, his throat closing up more and more with every passing second, he just held on, drawing her a little closer to himself. When he felt like he might pass out, or double over from the pain in his chest, her name broke free from his lips in a harsh sob, and he could breathe again. Tears flooded his face, and sight returned. A phone rang somewhere in the hallway, and the sound kicked his brain into action. On a deep inhale he steeled himself and on the exhale gently pulled away._

"_Forget me," he said in a low, rough voice that made his words a lie._

"_What?" Hannah couldn't have been more hurt and confused if John had punched her in the face. "No!"_

"_Hannah, if you ever loved me, please forget that we met today." And with a tender kiss to her forehead, he had jumped up and run._

In a desperate attempt to stop feeling he'd got hold of a bottle of booze, and in an equally desperate effort to put as much distance as possible between his beloved little sister and himself, he'd boarded the subway. Unfortunately, neither was working out. The feelings brought more memories, of Hannah, but also of Jessica, and suddenly he found himself longing to be back in his sister's loving embrace. _She had actually embraced him, filthy and smelly as he was, as if he wasn't. As if there weren't two decades between then and now._ He took a long drink from the bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. _He had pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, and she had let him, as if he wasn't as filthy and smelly as he was. _The tears returned, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the unbidden onslaught.

The connecting doors opened and a group of well-dressed, ill-behaved punks entered his subway car ...

*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*

Meanwhile Hannah stood in front of the clinic, trying to rein herself in. She had other patients to attend to. Any further thoughts – and feelings – about this incident would have to wait.

Compartmentalising like the highly capable doctor she was, Hannah took a deep breath, dried her face on the sleeve of her scrubs shirt and went back inside. Where she promptly bumped into Joan. How could she have forgotten about her?

"Are you alright, sweetie?," the older woman asked in a genuinely caring voice. "What happened? Why'd John run off?"

Hannah managed a semi-convincing smile. "I think I spooked him somehow. I'm sorry."

Joan shrugged. "Never mind. Don't take much to spook 'im. Kinda paranoid, even. Must be a leftover from his time as a soldier."

"Yeah, must be", Hannah replied half-heartedly. Then she forcibly shook herself out of her emotional haze and turned to the homeless woman. "Did you get something to eat, Joan? And a hot drink?"

"Sure did, sweetie. You got good catering." Joan's smile revealed surprisingly healthy-looking teeth.

An idea popped into Hannah's mind and she dug into her pocket, pulling out a few banknotes. "Here's thirty dollars. It's all I have on me right now. Could you please make sure you and John get a decent lunch today?"

Joan gave her an odd look. "D'you treat all your patients to lunch?"

Hannah smiled warmly. "Only the nice ones."

*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*

At some point, he admitted defeat. Something – or someone? – had overridden and stopped his self-destruct sequence, and changed the access code in the process. Hannah, Detective Carter, Harold Finch ... it was all too much. Within seventy-two hours they had broken through his carefully constructed barricades with a bulldozer of love, care and concern. If he hadn't lost the faith he'd been brought up in somewhere along the way, he'd say God was out to get him. Maybe He was. If he remembered correctly, God's existence didn't depend on anyone's believing in it. Either way, at some point, fully sober now, clean and with some decent food in his stomach, John realised that he couldn't go back to where he had been. Nor did he want to.

This is how he found himself back at the clinic. More precisely, across the street from the clinic.

It was long past closing time, if the sign on the door was to be believed. And indeed, from his place in the shadows John had seen the stream of patients slowly run dry over the past hour. Now he was waiting for Hannah to leave.

The research he had done on her had turned up precious little by way of valuable information. Witness protection had done a good job, something John was thankful for. Whatever it was that had landed his little sister in the programme almost two decades ago, she seemed to be safe now. And he had no intention of endangering her by digging too deep. No need to raise any red flags.

Why he was here now, he wasn't exactly sure. It wasn't like he planned on approaching her again. That was much too dangerous. He told himself he was going to keep an eye on her from a distance, make sure she got home alright or something. Even if he could never speak to her again, he still wanted to know she was safe.

Hannah was leaving the clinic now, shutting and locking the front door. She had grown up to be a very beautiful woman, he thought with a brief spark of brotherly pride. Tall and pleasantly built, her almost feline movements hinted at a fair amount of well-trained muscle mass. He slightly smiled at the thought that they still seemed to have _something_ in common.

His attention might have slipped for a split second, because suddenly he found her staring at him across the street. She held his gaze for several long moments before she turned and started walking. Bewildered by Hannah's reaction, John followed her at what he considered an inconspicuous distance.

They were almost alone in the quiet side street, so it was hard to miss the words directed at him. Without looking at him or outwardly acknowledging him in any other way, she asked him in an even voice: "Why did you come back, John?"

Scanning his surroundings for any potential onlookers and judging it safe, he closed the distance to a few feet behind her once they had turned onto the crowded main street pavement. "I found a job."

With the subway station in sight, Hannah slowed down just the tiniest bit. "When you've made up your mind, you know where to find me", she replied with nothing more than a very slight hitch to her voice. "Be safe." And with that, she left him standing in the middle of the crowd, where somewhere above him the emotionless eye of a camera was staring down at him, a little red light slowly blinking.

_A/N 2: By the way, sorry for any Briticisms. I won't apologise for the BE spelling, though. Writing anything else looks just too weird to my eye ..._


	3. Regrets

_**A/N: A heartfelt thank-you to all readers/reviewers/followers, especially to the guest reviewers to whom I can't reply personally.**_

_**Chapter warning: violence implied, although nothing explicit is mentioned. Reader discretion is advised. Please take the rating of this story seriously.**_

_**Disclaimer still applies.**_

**Regrets (I/4 Cura te ipsum)**

"_When you've made up your mind, you know where to find me." _Well, John couldn't say he hadn't tried to do just that. Make up his mind, that was. Tracking down Hannah was not a problem, as she had predicted. At the moment, however, John wished he had done things differently. _Completely_ differently. Oh, how he wished he had approached her and talked to her like a _normal_ person instead of snooping after her, stalking her as if she were one of their numbers. Then maybe he wouldn't be where he was at the moment: puking his guts out in a toilet stall in the community centre building where he had followed her.

He still couldn't wrap his head around what he had just heard. No, following her to that support group meeting and listening from his place in the hallway as she told her story had been a dumb move. She deserved better from him. _So_ much better.

Yes, now he knew how she came to be adopted, and why and how she had ended up in witness protection. But how he wished he didn't. Or rather, how he wished he'd known back then. If only they had never got separated. If only none of this had ever happened.

Flushing the toilet, John pulled himself up on rubbery legs and made his way to a sink. _Failure_, his reflection in the mirror screamed back at him. He turned on the water, let it run cold, and stuck his head under the tap.

Unbidden memories came rushing back. The moment they had been separated by the Department of Family Services after their mother's death. Their tearful meetings in the months and years after that. All of his promises to get her out of the foster system, so they could be a family again. How he had been made a liar over and over again by the judges in the family court. The last time they saw each other before he got deployed. The day he returned, only to find her gone without a trace.

He swallowed down bitter tears and tried to ease the burning in his eyes with a few handfuls of cold water.

John left the bathroom without a second look in the mirror, but the spiteful little voice in his head was back. _You failed her_, it mocked him. _You failed her, and now you're failing her again. _

*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*

A few days later, John found himself back at the same community centre, but for completely different reasons. In a conscious attempt to not let the memories of earlier interfere with his current mission, he decided to follow Dr. Tilman into the room in plain sight. What he had failed to take into account was seeing Hannah again, although it was a different group and she was there as a medical consultant (something he managed to ascertain later on). When he realised his mistake, it was already too late. Their eyes met, and he saw hers widen in surprise and ... _something_ else. Shock, shame, realisation? He was sure her expression just mirrored his own.

After talking to Dr. Tilman in the corridor, he forced himself to wait for Hannah. He had vowed to never again run from her, so he waited. After everyone had left, he made sure nobody was watching and slipped back into the room.

Apparently Hannah had been waiting for him, too. She was standing in the middle of the room, and upon seeing him, seemed to deflate a little.

For the longest time, neither of them seemed to know what to say. Eventually it was Hannah who broke the silence. "How much do you know?"

Slowly, John went over to her. "As much as you said in that meeting last week," he replied honestly, struggling to keep his voice even.

Hannah studied him intently for a minute. Then, taking his hand, she sat down and pulled him into the chair next to her. When he dropped his head, blinking against treacherous tears, she reached up and brushed a tender hand through the short hair at the nape of his neck, never letting go of his slightly trembling fingers. "It wasn't your fault, John," she said quietly. "There was nothing you could have done to prevent this. You weren't even in the country when it happened. There was no way you could have known about any of this."

John slightly shook his head. "I'm so, so sorry, Hannah!," he replied, finally looking up and letting her see his tear-filled eyes. "I'm sorry I wasn't there."

Hannah was wise enough to understand this display of vulnerability for what it was: a plea for forgiveness, and a request for permission to come back into her life. She didn't have to think twice. Drawing him into a tight embrace, she whispered the words he so desperately needed to hear: "Whatever it is that makes you feel guilty about me, please know that I hold nothing against you. _You are forgiven_. I love you. Please stay."

*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*

In the end, this was what made his decision for him. _"Maybe there are only good decisions."_ And since Benton had not been able to comply with his request – _"Help me make a good decision" _–, he had drawn on his vast experience in order to permanently take out the perp without actually killing or physically harming him. For Hannah, John wanted to start making better decisions.

When he came back from his road trip*, he went to see her. He _needed_ to see her. There was so much they needed to talk about. The CIA-infiltrated part of his brain screamed at him that she was not safe with him around. Harold's slightly paranoid and distinctly panicked voice in his head rattled down all the horrible complications any connection to his past might wreak upon their little operation. The brother part of him, however, insisted that he could keep her safer by keeping an eye on her – especially with the means at his disposal courtesy of his new job. Seeing her walk down the street to a small 24/7 near the clinic, he knew that he would never be able to silence the brother.

As if sensing his presence, she looked up, caught his eye, and her lips curled up in a tiny smile. She stopped, pulled her mobile phone out of her coat pocket and sent off a quick text. Then she disappeared in the diner next door.

Two small, warm, bright feelings ignited in his heart. It had been a long time, but he recognised them immediately.

_Make a good decision._ John took a deep breath and decided to give in. Yes, it was a huge risk, but he was certain it was one worth taking.

He waited for a few more minutes to make sure nobody was taking any undue interest in him, Hannah, or the diner. Then he casually crossed the road to the restaurant, stepped inside and scanned the room. He saw Hannah sitting at a window table and was instantly reminded of another young, dark-haired woman at a window table a few nights ago. "_You get a second chance. You get to let go. You get your life back. ... She gets to keep her memory of you."_ Prophetic words?

He slid into Hannah's booth. She kept studying the menu, holding it up with her left hand while tracing lazy circles around a rough spot in the wooden surface of the table with the fingers of her right hand. John brushed his fingers against hers, very much like, and at the same time very different to, the way he had taken Dr. Tilman's hand the other night. Her lips curled up again and she flicked him a fond look.

_Love. Hope. _The light and warmth in his heart grew stronger. _Yes. Definitely worth it._

He gave Hannah's hand a gentle squeeze and smiled.

*Just like many other fine authors in this fandom, I am working from the assumption that Benton was one of the "one or two" Americans in that Mexican prison mentioned in 1x21 "Many happy returns"


	4. Not Bulletproof

_**A/N: Missing scenes from 1x05 "Judgment". Still AU, in case anyone is wondering. Disclaimer still applies, too. Oh, and thank you everyone who read, reviewed, favourited and still follows my little story!**_

**Not Bulletproof**

Cursing inwardly at the searing pain in his shoulder, John forced himself off the ground. _Funny how he always seemed to forget that GSWs hurt like a b***_. He angled his head to glance at the wound but gave up quickly as the pain flared up white-hot like a blowtorch. For a moment he considered his options – call Finch and let him figure out the logistics, or catch a cab to go back to the library and call Finch on the way.

He was just about to touch his earpiece when a wave of dizziness hit. Stumbling slightly sideways, he landed against a low wall, and it was all he could do to keep his knees locked. Bracing himself with his good hand against the brickwork, he closed his eyes and tried to breathe through the nauseating feeling.

"Sir? Do you need any help, sir?" A soft voice from behind him penetrated the ringing in his ears, and he felt a gentle hand being placed between his shoulder blades. "Sir, can you hear me?," the voice insisted, now stronger and louder. Then: "John? John, what happened?"

He lifted his head slightly and cracked one eye open. "Hannah?," he croaked piteously. "What ... how ...?"

"Visiting a friend a few blocks from here. I was on my way to the subway when I heard a car speed away and thought there might have been an accident," Hannah explained, partly in order to distract him while she sat him down on the front steps of the house closest to them – Judge Gates' house, incidentally. "Care to elaborate on what happened to you? Because this looks an awful lot like a gunshot wound."

"Can't tell you," John bit out and hissed when Hannah pressed a gauze pad against the wound – a gauze pad that she had miraculously produced from a first-aid kit in the depths of her backpack. How she had managed to put on gloves and sneak her hand along with the gauze under his dress shirt and onto his broken skin without him noticing was completely beyond him.

"Looks like a straight through-and-through," Hannah shrugged, "but it's bleeding quite a bit. I need to make sure there is no major vascular damage."

"No time," John refused with a shake of his head. "There's a life at stake."

"I'll go out on a limb and assume you're not talking about your own life here," Hannah replied drily.

A quick grin flashed across John's face, but before he could produce an appropriate response, his phone beeped. _"Mr Reese, there's a car en route to take you and Dr. Silverstein to her clinic," _Finch's slightly nasal, and right now slightly annoyed voice came over the line. _"Please let her take care of your injuries. In the meantime I'll try to find any leads on Judge Gates' son."_

"Understood", John conceded meekly. "Thanks, Finch."

Having watched her brother's face during the short, rather one-sided conversation, Hannah knew better than to ask questions when a plain black car arrived to pick them up. To her delight it contained a fully equipped EMS trauma kit, so she was done with a basic examination by the time they reached the street where the clinic was. "Please turn right at the next corner and pull up to the third building on the left, so we can get in through the back entrance," she told the driver, who just nodded and did as instructed.

"Aren't you required to report GSWs to the police?," John asked when she had deposited him in her office and started cleaning the painful hole in his shoulder.

Hannah shrugged. "Theoretically, yes. But paperwork gets misplaced so easily." She donned fresh gloves and injected a local anaesthetic around the wound.

"Are you sure? Because I don't want you to risk your licence over this." The genuinely concerned look on his face touched her and she smiled.

"I guess it's a little too late to worry about that, so don't. It'll be all right."

*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*

"Care to elaborate on how you know Dr. Silverstein?," Finch asked while John shrugged out of his ruined shirt and dug for a new one in the stack he kept next to his gun-cleaning kit.

"That seems to be the question of the day ... _care to elaborate._" John hissed at a wrong move of his injured shoulder. Hannah had done a great job with the local anaesthetic, but she had also warned him that the muscle damage might be quite painful for a few days.

"So?," Finch pressed, eyebrows raised and arms crossed over his chest.

John took a deep breath to stop himself from snapping at his boss. "You're not the only _very private person_ here, Finch. And I value my privacy just as much as you do, even if you seem to have a fairly one-sided understanding of the concept."

Appropriately chastised, Harold Finch loosened his demanding stance and returned to his work station, leaving an exasperated John to wrestle with his shirt.

*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*

"You look like Bouncer after that spectacular rabbit chase," Hannah grinned and held the back door of the clinic open so her sopping wet brother could slip in. "I hope your boss pays you really well for what he puts you through", she added as she settled him in her office with a bunch of towels and poured him a cup of hot coffee from her own thermos.

"You're comparing me to our Rottweiler? I'm flattered ... I guess," John replied with a smirk, accepting the cup and trying to suppress a shiver.

"C'mon, get out of that soggy stuff. I think I've got a few clothes about your size somewhere to tide you over." Opening the locker in the corner of her office, she produced a nondescript sports bag. "Here. You can change behind the screen, but leave the shirt off for the moment. I'd like to take a second look at that hole in your shoulder, make sure there's no infection."

"You always keep a change of men's clothes in your locker?," John inquired from behind the screen with a slightly amused tone.

"You always this nosy?," Hannah retorted.

Stepping around the screen, John opened his mouth to reply something along the lines that being nosy came with the job, but caught himself at the very last second. She was safer if she didn't know what he was doing.

"Sit," Hannah ordered, apparently not expecting an answer. She then proceeded to take off the bandages, cleaning and examining the wound. "Looks good so far. No signs of infection. How does it feel?"

"All right, I guess. A little sore." He wondered why he even admitted that, but her fingers were so gentle as she applied fresh antiseptic cream and bandaged the wound, and her voice was so soft and caring ...

His eyes closed of their own accord and he leaned into her touch, just a little, but enough for her to notice. She draped a soft sweat jacket around his shoulders and carefully embraced him. "I can see that this is not your first gunshot wound," she said quietly, her features softening when she felt him returning the gentle hug. "But next time, can you please at least try to stay out of the line of fire? You might be my superhero big brother, but you're not bulletproof."

_A/N 2: Thanks for reading. Feel free to leave a review!_


	5. Torture

**Torture**

_**A/N: Need I still say that this is totally AU? Spoilers for 1x08 "Foe". Mentions of violence (just in case the chapter heading didn't clue you in), so reader discretion is advised. Usual disclaimer applies, though I do own my OCs.**_

_**Thank you everyone who reads, reviews, follows ... drop me a line, if you like.**_

John wasn't lying or bragging when he told Ulrich Kohl about those sixteen hours of torture in Kandahar. In fact, in his life as a Special Forces soldier and then as a CIA operative he'd been "interrogated" more often than he cared to remember. It was a part of the job he didn't particularly care for, but a part of the job nonetheless. Maybe he was getting soft – whether as a result of age, or of civilian life, or of being treated like an actual human being for a change by those three people that had grown so close to his heart within the past few months, he didn't know – but when Kohl stuck that wretched needle in his ulnar nerve, it _hurt_.

He closed his eyes, trying to mentally remove himself from the pain. It didn't work, not really, because his memories of his days in the CIA were as far from a "happy place" as anything could be.

"_The brachial plexus is a network of nerves ..."_ John blinked and just barely stopped himself from hanging his head in defeat, turning it slightly to the side instead. _As soon as I'm out of here, I'm taking Hannah for a day out. Horseback riding, maybe a picnic, definitely a game of basketball ... just _something_ to make up for all this lost time. _But in the same instant, he heard Kara's mocking voice: _"You never go back."_

Then the pain in his shoulder subsided to a bearable level, and he was trying desperately to collect himself enough to dissuade Kohl from going after his daughter. Next thing he knew he was staring into the muzzle of a silenced gun, fully expecting to die within seconds. He had screwed up, for the worst reason of all: he'd been cocky, underestimating his adversary and letting his guard down. Now he was going to pay the price. In a moment of crystalline clarity, however, he realised that now his death would hurt other people – people he cared about, people who cared about him. All he felt at that moment was failure and painful regret at letting them down.

Then suddenly there was Lionel, and then he was free. Getting up was difficult (he had to brace himself against the table like an old man, for goodness' sake), and moving was painful. His right arm felt useless after hours of long needles being stuck into nerves, but that didn't matter right now.

Drawing his gun on Kohl with his right hand was a dumb move, triggered by nothing else than sheer force of habit. Surprisingly, he didn't miss when he fired, but the recoil of the weapon made the pain in his arm flare up again. Only this time, it refused to subside.

When he proceeded to check his opponent's gun – again, force of habit –, he discovered to his horror that the clip was empty. He had shot a defenceless man. Feeling sore and tired, he dropped on the bench next to Kohl.

The old East German operative was gone within minutes, and John knew he had to get out before the police arrived, but he was so exhausted, he could barely think straight. Running on autopilot, he steered in the general direction of the only place he had felt relatively safe recently.

*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*

He realised the clinic would have been closed for hours by now, but he knew how to get in without tripping the alarm, and he could always leave Hannah a note letting her know he'd stopped by so she wouldn't report it as a break-in. What he hadn't counted on was the possibility of someone still being there at this late hour. His brain must have been more addled by pain and fatigue than he realised, because no sooner had he opened the back door than he found himself standing face to face with his sister.

"John!" she exclaimed quietly, apparently alarmed by something she saw. "What happened?" Ushering him all the way in, she closed and locked the door and led him to her office.

"Hannah? What's wrong?" A tall, dark, and quite attractive man in blue scrubs rose from his place behind of her desk when they entered. John stiffened, and for a second Hannah thought he might bolt, but then the strangest thing happened: the two men stood face to face, eyes locking, a myriad of emotions playing out on their faces. For a few seconds, all that could be heard in the room was the ragged breathing of three very shocked people. Then the two men visibly deflated ... and stepped into a long, tight hug.

"They told me you were dead," both whispered at the same time, closing their eyes against tears of anguish, sorrow, and relief beyond words.

*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*

Time seemed to come to a stop for a while. Hannah stood rooted to the spot, trying to comprehend what was going on. The two men apparently knew each other, from their days in the military, if she had to guess. Hannah knew that her friend, Dr. Benjamin Al-Khalil, had been an army surgeon until his unit had been ambushed en route to the site of an accident on an Iraqi mountain road. He had been captured, held hostage and tortured for three days until a unit of Marines had got him out. The incident had left him scarred him for life, both physically and emotionally. His captors seemed to have known about his profession, because they specifically went for his hands, breaking virtually every single bone in both of them. He would never be able to work as a surgeon again.

Putting two and two together, Hannah remembered him mentioning a good friend being severely wounded in the ambush. Ben had been dragged away before he could help his buddy properly – he had to leave him on that dusty mountain road with a gaping, heavily bleeding leg wound. It was something that still gave him more nightmares than the three days of torture.

Distractedly making a mental note to check John's leg for scarring at the next occasion that presented itself – and she was pretty sure it _would_ present, going at the rate that they were – she shook herself out of her bewildered stupor to tend to the situation at hand. It wasn't a second too soon, either, because suddenly John's knees buckled, and if not for Ben's quick reflexes and impressive strength (something she knew from first-hand experience), he would have hit the floor.

"Easy, buddy", Ben soothed while manoeuvring the presently half-unconscious 200 pounds of pure muscle that were Hannah's brother onto the exam table by the wall. "Can you tell me what happened?" he inquired while starting a thorough examination.

"Got stuck with a needle," John managed with clenched teeth, trying to breathe through the nauseating pain that assaulted him once more.

"Got stuck where, John?" asked Hannah while organising the material she would need.

"Right elbow. Right shoulder." John did his best not to pass out from the pain, but at this point passing out sounded pretty tempting.

Hannah hurried to cut the sleeve open since it was fairly obvious he wouldn't be able to get out of his jacket and his shirt. She switched on a second light over the exam table, illuminating some impressive bruising and significant swelling.

"Oh my ... what the _heck_?!" Hannah blurted.

But before John could reply, Ben did, and he sounded sick. "They went specifically for the ulnar nerve and the brachial plexus. He was tortured."

Hannah whirled around to see a very pale Ben leaning heavily against the exam table. "For goodness' sake, sit down, Ben!" she urged, angling for a rolling stool with her foot and pulling it close so he could sit on it.

"To be continued," she murmured, though with a distinct feeling that it wasn't going to happen. "John, I'm going to draw some blood so I can run a quick tox screen. I'm afraid I can't give you anything for the pain until we've ruled out a few things, but I'll put you on an IV to flush your system, okay?"

John sensed that she wasn't really asking, but he gave a non-committal nod anyway. "No drugs, though, and the needles were clean. He stuck them in rubbing alcohol before sticking them into me", he wheezed by way of an explanation. "Just had a lot of fun poking my nerves."

"That's reassuring", Hannah snorted, although she was a bit relieved about that particular bit of information. Anything else might have been disastrous. Drugs, hepatitis, HIV ... she shuddered at the potential implications. "I'm going to run the tests anyway. Better safe than sorry. And you _are _getting that IV, buddy, if only for the shock symptoms. Same goes for you, Ben." She turned around to the still very pale doctor, who looked as if something horrible was playing out before his very eyes, something only he could see.

With a sad sigh, she dumped her gloves as she knelt down in front of her friend. "Ben?" she addressed him, putting her hands on his trembling knees and rubbing them lightly. "Ben, do you hear me? Ben?"

Slowly his eyes focussed on Hannah and he took a deep, shuddering breath. "C'mon, let's get you lying down, sweetie", she said in a soft voice while gently cupping the side of his clammy face with her hand.

Despite his pain, John was intrigued by the scene unfolding before him. He'd seen army buddies having flashbacks, and those episodes could be frightening, to say the least. However, Hannah didn't seem to be intimidated or frightened – just highly focussed on the man before her. Ben, on the other hand, latched onto her voice and touch with a level of trust that spoke of a deep bond between them.

"Ben? Are you with me now?" Hannah asked calmly, never breaking eye contact.

The man just nodded, obviously trying hard to control the trembling in his muscles and his erratic breathing.

"Ben, talk to me. Tell me where you are."

"Clinic", he whispered.

"Good. And do you know who this is?" she continued, half turning to John to give his uninjured hand a quick, reassuring squeeze.

"John", Ben breathed. "He's alive."

"Yes, yes, he is", Hannah agreed quietly, and John had to swallow against the wave of emotions that rushed through him at the utter wonder and relief contained in these few short words.

"But he's hurt", Ben suddenly remembered, a dark shadow crossing his face. "Tortured."

Hannah looked from Ben to John, willing him to deny Ben's statement, but since he couldn't lie to his sister, he just remained silent.

With what looked like a final mental shake, Ben shrugged off the remnants of the terrifying flashback and returned fully to the here and now. "Ulnar nerve and brachial plexus. We'll need to look out for neurological symptoms, and we'll need to keep an eye on motor function. But for now, I think some immobilisation, anti-inflammatories, and painkillers are in order, as soon as we've made sure there is nothing dangerous running through his system."

"Blood tests will take at least an hour," Hannah nodded. "Until then, try to get some rest. Both of you." She gestured to the corner of the room. "You can take the couch, Ben. I'll be with you in a minute."

The other doctor, however, shook his head. "Let me give you a hand here. I'll take care of his arm while you get the blood tests up and running."

Apparently Hannah understood his need to regain control, and to reassure himself that his long-lost friend was indeed alive and more or less well. She quickly drew blood and set up an IV for her brother before she grabbed the vials and disappeared towards to the small lab in the back of the clinic.

*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*

"What happened after we got separated?" Ben asked quietly while applying antiseptic cream to John's battered elbow.

John sighed. "I honestly don't know. I passed out shortly after they ... took you ... When I came to, I was in a military hospital in Germany and it was two days later. I tried to find out what happened to you, but I was told there were no survivors. I told them they were wrong, that you were captured and probably held hostage, but they said there was no evidence for that. I was incapacitated for weeks, and when I finally got back on my feet and started digging around, your file said 'Missing, presumed dead'. It said ..."

Ben stopped what he was doing and gave John an incredulous look. "What?"

"Yes. It said they found ..." John swallowed hard and averted his eyes.

"John, that's impossible! They got me out after three days! I was flown out straight to Tel Aviv because an American hand surgeon was there attending a conference. A week later I was back in New York!" Ben dropped his stiff and scarred hands onto his knees, staring at his friend with the same bewildered expression he was seeing in John's face.

"But ... why ... I don't understand ... why would they ...?"

Ben pressed his lips together in a thin line and started bandaging John's arm. "I suppose it was too embarrassing," he said in a bitter voice after a few moments. "Especially after 9/11. A half-Arabic, half-Jewish doctor in the US army, getting captured by Al Qaeda ..." He looked up again, and the betrayal in his eyes was once more mirrored in John's. "I was discharged with a fat check and a gag order. They said they'd make sure no-one would believe me if I told anyone what had happened to me."

Both men fell quiet for a few minutes, each trying to process what they had just learned. Finally, John whispered, "I'm sorry. I should have kept digging."

Ben locked eyes with him again and emphatically shook his head. "You have nothing to be sorry for. They lied, to both of us. It's not your fault. And if anyone should be sorry, it's me. I didn't even try to find out what happened to you. I just assumed that you couldn't have survived those injuries. The condition you were in, you had less than thirty minutes left when they dragged me away from you. I was convinced you'd died on that mountain road."

*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*

"_I always thought I'd die in a place they didn't know my name," _was what John said out loud, standing on the cemetery over the fresh grave of the old East German operative. What he left unspoken, however, was the awareness that maybe this wouldn't happen after all.

"_You think anyone will care for our names?" –_

"_After we're dead." _Even as John said the words, he knew they weren't true, at least not in the life he was leading now. There were people who cared for his real name, who knew him by it, and accepted without question that they could never again call him by it, or ever share their knowledge with anyone.

"_I thought we already were." _No, he wasn't. He was very much alive, as were the most important people in his life.

They had talked until the wee hours of the morning. Ben had asked if John knew anything about his own rescue (just what he had sketched together from the medical records: apparently he had only survived because Ben had performed an outstanding first aid). John had asked what Ben was doing now (running a therapy centre for traumatised military personnel on a horse farm in New Jersey), and how he and Hannah had met (at a medical conference). The question John _hadn't _asked, though, was about the nature of their relationship: that was a) none of his business and b) fairly obvious anyway. Then, just before the break of dawn, John had slipped out of the building with a promise to keep his arm still for another twenty-four hours ("still", of course, being a loose term in John's mind).

Yes, John was indeed very much alive, and he felt it, too. He only hoped he wasn't making a mistake in embracing the love, care, and friendship that was offered to him so freely, and in allowing himself to love and care in return. He vaguely but truly felt like he wasn't expendable anymore.

It scared him like nothing else.

_**A/N 2: I was a little hesitant about bringing a second OC into this story, but he was needed, as you'll see in future chapters. Also, he sort of grew on me over time, so please bear with me.**_

_**I realise that the original series starts out on the fact that Finch and Reese are both people without ties to their pasts, but as the series progresses, we see that this is not quite true for either of them. Moreover, I find it highly improbable that they would never come across anyone they knew in their past lives – I'll just say "six degrees of separation".**_

_**Next chapter is all written, though it might not be up for another week since I'm in the middle of the pre-Christmas rush. (What on earth was I thinking negotiating deadlines for "before Christmas"?)**_


	6. Worthy

_**A/N: I know I said there probably wouldn't be a second chapter this week, but I caught a nasty cold, had to cancel my weekend away, and needed a major h/c fix. So here you go. This chapter is built around the last few minutes of 1x10 "Number Crunch" – by far my favourite episode of the whole series. Chapter warning: shameless h/c, and of course the scenes of violence and slight gore shown in the original series. Disclaimer: still don't own, never will, don't want to, yada yada. Enjoy!**_

**Worthy**

It was sheer dumb luck – or divine intervention, as she later reflected – that Hannah stepped on the parking deck in exactly the same moment the surveillance cameras were shut down by the CIA. After a seemingly non-stop 36-hour shift, she wanted nothing more than go home and sleep for a day or three.

She faintly recalled leaving her car in a far corner of the parking deck, and tried to remember why on earth she had done that. Something about being a tad late and not wanting to waste even more time looking for a better spot. With a mental shrug she steered towards her sleek black hybrid.

More than a little dismayed she noticed that the lighting was out in that section of the parking deck, again. Well, time for another complaint to the management. If she had counted correctly, this would be the fifth in just the past eight months. Maybe she should sic John on them to give them a little hands-on presentation on the importance of ensuring the safety of their personnel. The thought made her smile.

Somewhere behind her there was movement and she turned around, her hand automatically going to the pepper spray in her pocket. Then she recognised her brother, crossing the parking deck with long, measured steps, headed at an angle away from her. She was just about to approach him when she heard a car pulling up. Acting on instinct, Hannah ducked behind the car closest to her and waited.

With bated breath she listened as the approaching car stopped and people got out.

"_Hello John."_

"_Mark."_

"_Glad to see you're still alive."_

"_I bet you are."_

Strange how the tone of a person could say the exact opposite of what their words expressed. This was not going to end well, and there was absolutely nothing Hannah could do to help her brother.

"_You know that'll never happen." _Like a dark prophecy, John's words hovered in the cool night air for a few seconds, until a shot rang out and he collapsed.

Hannah was so shocked, she couldn't even make a sound, her wide-eyed stare fixed on her brother. Helplessly she had to watch him get shot a second time while he fired a few shots at the car's headlights, plunging the parking deck in near darkness. Then she saw him stumble to his feet and disappear into the shadows. From her vantage point, Hannah saw clearly what the man called Mark couldn't see: that the woman, a police officer judging by her badge, drew her gun and followed John to the staircase.

Running on pure instinct and adrenaline, Hannah waited for men to drive off in their car before she sprinted across the parking deck and hit the staircase, too. Deliberately ignoring the faint sound of John's voice and the cautious steps of the policewoman as well as the trail of fresh blood on the stairs, Hannah quietly descended two flights, darted into a corridor and took a shortcut to where she suspected she could intercept John.

She was rewarded with the sound of his laboured breathing and faltering steps coming towards her. Going half a flight of stairs back up, she wordlessly inserted herself under his shoulder and took a firm hold of his tall frame.

"No, Hannah," he choked out between pained gasps of breath. "Don't do that. You can't be seen with me. You can't risk your job over this. It's not worth it."

"Shut up and focus on walking," she hissed, tightening her grip on him.

He was fading fast, she could feel it. It was probably only adrenaline and sheer willpower keeping him on his feet. "Come on, John. Stay with me," she whispered and squeezed his arm, silently trying to instil some strength in him. "Just lean on me. I'm here."

Somehow her quiet pleading found its way through the haze of pain and blood loss. "Thank you for not giving up on me." His voice was barely audible now.

She pulled him closer, tried to take more of his weight. "I'll never give up on you."

They reached the ground floor, stumbled through the door, leaned against the rail for a short moment. "Hannah", John breathed, "you need to–"

With screeching tyres, a dark sedan pulled into the parking structure. John looked up, recognised Harold and made to move forward. Taking the hint, Hannah grabbed him tighter and moved with him.

The way her brother trustingly stretched out his free arm to let the short, limping man help him, pulled at her heartstrings. For a moment, she locked eyes with the man whose name she didn't even know yet, and reached an unspoken understanding with him. They both had a common cause – one that, at the moment, they struggled to uphold in a very physical sense. But just as they started for the car, the stairwell door flew open and a sharp _"Hold it!"_ stopped them dead in their tracks.

Without knowing anything about the situation other than what she had witnessed on the roof, Hannah realised that things had just escalated to a whole new level of complicated. She saw the policewoman look questioningly at the short man, look regretfully at John, look incredulously at her. Hannah could see the internal battle as clear as day in the woman's dark eyes and knew they had won when she holstered her weapon and hurried over to them, saying _"Get him out of here."_

While the short man got into the driver's seat, Hannah got in the back, scooting over and opening her arms for John when the policewoman eased him down on the backseat. One long last look at John and her before she shouted _"Go!"_ and slammed the door shut.

They immediately took off. Hannah knew that speed was more of the essence than cautious driving, so she just held her brother in place to keep him from getting jostled too much.

"It's all right," she told him quietly when a pained groan escaped his lips. "We're getting you to safety. Just hold on for me, will you?"

"I'm sorry," John choked out, his bloody fingers weakly curling around her arm. "You shouldn't have done that. It's not worth it."

With a barely stifled sob, Hannah pulled him tighter, cupped his sweaty cheek in her hand and gently pulled his head down to her shoulder. "Oh yes, John, it is," she replied, dropping a tender kiss on the top of his head. "Because you are."

_**A/N 2: Reviews are chicken soup :)**_


	7. Cared For Pt 1

_**A/N: Thank you everyone who read, reviewed and/or alerted this story. I'm always happy to hear from you. This chapter is a continuation of the previous one, part of it overlapping in John's POV. Still unmitigated h/c. Spoilers for 1x10 and 11, "Number Crunch" and "Super". I own nothing but my OC and the ramblings of my imagination.**_

_**To guest reviewer CookieSprinkles: I can think of several ways of killing a cold "in POI style", as you put it, but not all of them (actually very few of them) include chicken soup. *giggle***_

_**Now on with the story.**_

**Cared for Pt. 1**

"_You're not bulletproof."_ He almost laughed as Hannah's words from a few months ago echoed in his mind while he slowly, painfully made his way down the stairs in the parking structure, step by agonising step. His short conversation with Harold had not turned out as intended, though exactly what his intention had been, he couldn't even say. Call Harold to say his last good-bye, and then expect him to stay away? Ridiculous.

Not half as ridiculous, though, as the attempt to crawl off and find a quiet corner to die in, figuratively and literally. Even if he managed to hide away and silently bleed out before the CIA could hunt him down, this was not what he wanted. Not anymore. He couldn't do that to Harold, and much more importantly, he couldn't do that to his little sister. He had to at least try and fight. So he kept on walking – well, stumbling, really – and hoping Harold would follow through with his crazy plan.

He must have zoned out more than he realised, because suddenly he felt the leaden weight of his own injured body get lighter, the badly tilting axis of his world being righted, as two strong arms took hold of him, a warm, solid presence affixing itself to his side.

Stifling a sob of relief and agony, and feeling weak and out of control, he tried to distance himself from his emotions by falling back on rational reasoning. "No, Hannah. Don't do that. You can't be seen with me. You can't risk your job over this. It's not worth it."

Her reaction almost made him smile. "Shut up and focus on walking!" Yep, definitely his sister. But her admonition was warranted. He barely managed to lift his feet anymore. "Come on, John. Stay with me. Just lean on me. I'm here."

He felt her tightening her hold on him and tried to remember the last time he had felt so loved and cared for ... but he came up empty. "Thank you for not giving up on me," he whispered, not caring if she could hear the tears in his voice.

She pulled him closer, taking even more of his weight. How she managed to, he didn't know. "I'll never give up on you." Well, there was the answer to his question.

They reached the ground floor, stumbled through the door, leaned against the rail for a short moment. While he had felt relatively safe in the stairwell, John felt exposed now that they were in the open again. "Hannah, you need to–" Was his voice really as desperate as it sounded in his own ears?

Then suddenly there was Harold's car. The next thing he knew, Finch was hurrying in his direction, and then John felt himself being held up from both sides. For a moment he fooled himself into thinking everything might be all right after all – until he heard a sharp _"Hold it!"_ behind them.

Hardly able to stand anymore, John lifted his head just enough to have a look over his shoulder, right into the eyes of the fine detective that had grown so close to his heart since the beginning of their clandestine undertakings. She looked troubled, conflicted, regretful, and he felt a short twinge of compassion; but whatever strength he'd had left a few moments ago was bleeding out of him with every passing second. Now he just wanted to pass out, because he couldn't hold on anymore.

Apparently Detective Carter saw it, too, because a second later she holstered her weapon and hurried over to them. _"Get him out of here,"_ she threw at Harold and then helped Hannah settle John on the back seat.

He raised his eyes to the woman who had unwittingly sent him into this death trap not ten minutes ago. She stood there, holding the car door, apparently still fighting an internal battle. He recognised the moment she made her decision. _"Go!"_ she shouted, slamming the door shut.

The sharp U-turn of the car pushed John against Hannah at an uncomfortable angle. The sudden movement propelled a fresh wave of white-hot pain through his body, and he couldn't hold back a distressed sound. Strong yet tender arms held him tighter, grounding him, and his sister's soft voice washed over him in a soothing cadence: "It's all right. We're getting you to safety. Just hold on for me, will you?"

"I'm sorry," he choked out, his blood-covered, shaking fingers trying to find purchase on her arm while she un-twisted them both into a less awkward position, settling him more comfortably against her. "You shouldn't have done that. It's not worth it."

A shudder rippled through him, and it took him a moment to realise that it hadn't originated in his own body. A gentle hand cupped his clammy cheek and he felt his weary head coming to rest in the crook of his sister's neck. As his eyes slipped shut, he heard her voice again. "Oh yes, John, it is," she said and he felt her dropping a kiss on the top of his head. "Because you are."

Her loving words defeated all his efforts to keep a hold on his emotions. The rough, hitching gasps of breath that broke forth intensified the pain in his body tenfold, but for a few long, precious moments, he felt safe and secure enough to let the storm within him unleash its fury. All too soon, however, Hannah repeated her quiet pleas for him to stay with her, so he tried.

In what seemed to him like one smooth movement, she slid out under him and lifted his legs, propping them up slightly against the door, while turning him sideways and easing him down on the seat. A moment later, a soft blanket was pushed under his head and shoulders.

Then the interior lights came on. The short discussion between Hannah and Harold on how to proceed was too quiet and too rushed for him to follow, but apparently some kind of agreement was reached, because Harold started making phone calls.

Hannah, for her part, fell into doctor mode. She rummaged through the trauma kit, cut and pulled away sticky clothing and began wiping away blood with gloved hands. Forcing his eyes open, John caught a glimpse of her face, a penlight between her teeth, directing the beam at the bloody, painful holes in his body that her fingers were probing with practised, efficient movements.

After wrapping his thigh in a tight pressure bandage, she packed the abdominal wound with sterile gauze, topping it off with a few thick, sterile pads. Just when John thought he was through with the worst of the pain, she dug her elbow into the bandaged stomach wound to apply the maximum pressure she was able to produce in this crammed space where she couldn't just bend over him and push down with her hands. So far, John had bit back most of the pained sounds that threatened to escape him ... but now he screamed.

It was a minute before the shockwave of pain rippled off and he could hear anything apart from the ringing in his ears again. Struggling to catch his breath as if he had just run a marathon, he tried to concentrate on what started to push through all the distressing sensations: the feel of Hannah's hand soothingly running up and down his arm, and the sound of her calm voice telling him to just breathe.

"ETA, Mr Finch?" Hannah asked of the man in the driver's seat.

"About five minutes, Dr. Silverstein," he replied, and John could feel the car accelerating some more.

"Just five minutes, John," Hannah repeated to him. "Can you hold on for five more minutes, buddy?" The pleading tone was back, rousing the big brother in him.

"Yeah ... I can do that." When did it become so hard to speak? And when did breathing become so difficult?

Hannah must have noticed, too, because suddenly the pressure on John's abdomen let up, and the next time he blinked she had moved up to his shoulders. "Hang on just a sec, buddy." With surprising strength she lifted his upper body and inserted herself behind him, settling him against her as comfortably as possible. "There. Is that better?"

The pain in his stomach flared up for a short moment, but breathing was infinitely easier now. "Yes. Thank you," he whispered. A second later the external pressure on his abdominal wound was back, but less painful than before. At least he thought so, because Hannah's arms were around him, her hands pulling instead of pushing, and he could feel her heartbeat, a reassuring, even, calming rhythm.

"I'm so glad you're here with me."

John didn't realise he had spoken the words out loud until he felt Hannah's warm breath brush against his temple. "No place I'd rather be right now."

He lifted a hand and placed it over Hannah's interlocked fingers that were working so hard to keep his blood from leaving his body. Squeezing her hands weakly, he turned his face to look at her and whispered: "I love you, Hannah, so much. Please don't ever forget that."

*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*

A few quiet minutes later they arrived at ... a morgue. It was a crazy, risky plan, but probably the only way to throw the CIA off their scent. After all, wasn't this where they had wanted to put John in the first place?

Transferring John from car to gurney was agonising for all parties involved. By the time they had situated and secured him, all of them wished he had passed out before they had to move him.

The way John was clinging to Hannah's hand by the end of the manoeuvre, she felt cruel having to pull away and leave him, even if it was only for a few minutes. They had, however, agreed to use different entrances, since Hannah could always claim medical business as a cover. So she reluctantly extracted her hand from his, bent down to him and, dropping a gentle kiss to his forehead, whispered: "See you in a few minutes." Then she tenderly ran her fingers through his sweat-drenched hair one more time and left before she could change her mind.

John looked utterly bereft at her exit, and Harold felt his heart break a little for this man he had employed for the past few months now, and who despite all precautions had become a friend in the process. How he could have missed the role Dr. Silverstein obviously played in John's life was yet to be determined; right now he was just glad she was there.

Resolutely keeping his eyes averted from the near despair in John's face, Harold concentrated on taking him to their next stop: Dr. Farouk Madhani, a brilliant Iraqi surgeon who couldn't afford a licence in the US because he sent most of his money home to his family.

The look on the M.E.'s face changed from surprise to suspicion to interest within the thirty seconds it took Harold to present his case and make his request. Then he caught his new patient's eyes, gaze wandering around the room as if in search for something – someone? – and finally landing on the stainless steel table next to him with downright resignation, as if he fully expected to end up there after all. Something within the surgeon seemed to shift, because he now started for the gurney with unmistakeable resolve in his movements.

He was just about to transfer his patient to the table when a sound at the door startled him. His face lit up at the friendly greeting in fluent Arabic from the young female doctor. A short explanation of the rather unique situation followed, also in his native tongue.

Harold shot an alarmed look at Hannah, but both doctors, as well as John, seemed totally unfazed.

"You two know each other?" he asked, slightly out of breath.

"No questions asked," Dr. Farouk Madhani deadpanned.

Hannah just shook her head, ending the interlude with a short "Later," and moved back to John's side.

She helped Dr. Madhani place the patient onto the table, and Harold watched in amazement as a finely timed medical choreography ensued. After a quick examination, assessment, and consultation, Dr. Madhani pulled together everything needed for the impromptu surgery and started to scrub up, while Hannah prepped John for the operation and scrubbed up, too.

Harold had been sent to the small private room adjacent to the M.E.'s office, away from the blood and gore, but also away from prying eyes of potential late-night passers-by.

Both doctors agreed that Hannah would medicate the patient, as well as monitor his vitals, and just jump in should any unforeseen problems arise during surgery. She started two IVs with fluids, antibiotics, and painkillers. Both she and Dr. Madhani were apprehensive about not putting the patient fully under, but general anaesthesia was out of the question – not only due to the unique situation, but also for lack of equipment. So she finally sat down on a roller stool by John's head and explained the plan.

"I'm sorry that we won't be able to keep you completely pain free," she finished with a painful lump in her throat. "And I hate to do it, but we'll need to restrain you for the duration. We just have to keep the risks at a minimum."

"I understand," John replied quietly and tried to convey with a look what he couldn't even begin to put in words. "It's all right. Go ahead."

Their eyes locked, and the deep trust reflected in John's gaze nearly moved Hannah to tears. "I'll be with you every step of the way," she promised, cupping his cheek in her gloved hand and tracing the high cheekbone soothingly with her thumb.

"Thank you," John said with a faint smile, leaning into the touch and taking a moment to draw comfort from her loving presence. Then he heaved a deep sigh, closed his eyes, and let go.

_**A/N 2: I'm as yet undecided whether to go on Christmas hiatus right here or after the next chapter. Just know that the next few chapters are already written out, so you won't have to wait for too long. Cheerio!**_


	8. Cared For Pt 2

_**A/N: After Tuesday's episode, and everything else that happened this week, I felt like I just couldn't update "Twelve Silly Days". So, in dire need of a substantial boost from the comfort department, I've got this for you – written quite some time ago, but IMHO fairly appropriate for the current state of things.**_

_**This is set in 1x11 "Super" between the morgue and the apartment – and, of course, totally AU. Also, I don't own anything apart from my take on this (missing) scene.**_

**Cared for Pt. 2 **

He woke up to the quiet beeping of a heart monitor and a warm weight on his hand and forearm. Surprisingly, he was alive and, at least for the moment, pain free.

It took him a minute to get his bearings. His ingrained fight response, finely honed by all those years in the military and then the CIA, was at war with the unfamiliar feeling of ... being safe and cared for. Even before he opened his eyes, he smelled his sister's flowery shampoo and faint hint of perfume, as well as his employer's unobtrusive but very distinguished cologne.

Then there was another strange sensation: warmth, but not like that of an artificially heated room. He remembered it most recently from his days on the street, when it used to wake him after a night on a park bench or outside the abandoned house, because the smell inside had just been too much to bear. This gentle caress of warmth came along with the cheerful teasing of light, and while he had loathed it during those horrible months, it now came as a welcome messenger of life and hope.

Slowly, not wanting to take any chances about the current wonderful absence of pain, John turned his face slightly away from the sunlight and tentatively opened his eyes. The sight unfolding before him warmed his heart just as much as the morning sun warmed his skin.

Hannah was in a chair by his bed, her head resting on her left arm next to his left hand, her fingers loosely curled around his, while her right forearm was draped around his own, the cotton of her shirt soft on his skin and her right hand tucked under his left one. Harold was currently standing at the foot of his bed, face drawn into a worried frown, and apparently undecided about something.

"Mr Reese," the man said quietly when he saw John's eyes flutter open. "Welcome back. How are you feeling?"

John thought about that for a moment while he tried to take stock of his body. "Not too bad," he replied in a whisper that barely came out because his throat was so dry. "Got me on the good stuff, huh?"

Harold stepped around the bed to a small table, poured a glass of water from the pitcher situated there, and put a bendy straw into the liquid.

"Small sips only," he advised as he held out the glass to his employee-turned-friend.

John reached for it, but when he tried to hold it, it almost slipped from his fingers because suddenly it seemed to weigh a ton.

"Allow me to assist," Harold said in his customary, slightly brittle tone, but there was genuine warmth and concern in his eyes. He held the glass and carefully bent the straw to John's lips.

"Thanks, Harold," John nodded his appreciation when the other man put the glass back on the table.

Then he let his eyes travel to his sleeping sister, and the warm, cared-for feeling returned in an instant. He gently closed his fingers around hers, taking in the worried frown on her face and the way her hand tightened on his arm, as if trying to keep him from leaving. A strand of wavy black hair had escaped from the tight braid, outlining the delicate curve of her face from temple to cheekbone to jawline like a frame around a precious picture. John manoeuvred his free arm across his abdomen, carefully avoiding the slightly numb area around the gunshot wound, and reached out to run his fingertips over the top of her head. In a low, slightly hoarse voice he asked: "Has she been here all night?"

"Never left for a second after getting you settled here," Harold replied, slightly surprised at the tender gesture.

"Where is here, anyway? 'Cause it sure doesn't look like the morgue to me," John suddenly inquired with a quirk of his eyebrow.

"Take a guess," a quiet voice suggested from the doorway.

"Hello Ben." A small smile tugged at John's lips. "So, the therapy centre. You must have knocked me out pretty good if you got me moved all the way out here without me noticing."

"Yeah, shock and blood loss will do that to you. Although the sedatives might have helped, too," the doctor replied drily while checking John's vitals.

"And you didn't get tailed?" John asked suspiciously.

"I might have sent the CIA on a bit of a wild goose chase." If it weren't Harold talking, John might have mistaken the man's expression for smugness ... and amusement!

"Yeah, wild goose chase to Canada," Hannah murmured, peeling her eyes open and smiling at her brother. She sat up without letting go of John, slightly squeezing his hand and gently running her other hand up and down his forearm. "How are you feeling?"

"Alive ... thanks to you."

*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*

Harold Finch had always wondered if John's armour-piercing glare was something he had developed courtesy of the military and the CIA. At this moment, however, he learned that it was a family trait, because he found himself at the receiving end of said glare ... but not coming from his employee. "I'm afraid you missed the entire point of what I was saying, Mr Finch. You _will _take me along, or you're not leaving. This is not up for discussion."

Hannah was livid. Harold had turned up in the dead of night, trying to whisk John away to an unknown destination.

"He'll be safe and cared for. I should think that's all that matters, Dr Silverstein." The words were out of his mouth half a second before he realised his mistake.

"Don't you _dare_ speak to me like this!" Apparently the quiet, lethal tone was genetic as well. "I'm _not _one of your paid minions."

"John is not a minion." It struck Harold as a fleeting thought that he must have a death wish to keep talking back at the beautiful doctor.

"I wasn't referring to John, though it says a lot about _you_ that you would think I did." Hannah took half a step back, sizing him up with cool detachment. "I realise you don't know me, and I appreciate that you're trying to keep John safe. I trust that with all your money you'd provide appropriate medical care for him, and I respect your need for privacy. However, he is in _no_ condition to travel. So if you insist he'll be safer elsewhere, you're taking me along."

"Do I get a say in this?" A tired voice made them both wheel around. John was sitting on the edge of his bed, his left arm curled protectively around his abdomen, his right arm braced against the mattress in order to stay upright.

Both Hannah and Harold seemed to deflate at the quiet question, though for entirely different reasons. While Hannah realised there was very little she could do to protect her brother if the CIA found him, Harold did a double take at how sick and ... _frail_ ... John looked. His skin was still far too pale, his face lined with pain, and even the slight exertion of sitting up had put a sheen of cold sweat on his face.

Hannah stepped over to his bed. "Come lie back down, please," she urged him softly, putting her hands on his shoulders and ducking her head slightly to get on eye level with him.

"Just a minute, Hannie," he replied gently, bringing his right hand up to her forearm and squeezing it lightly. "Harold," he then continued, "I really appreciate your concern for my safety. But Hannah and Ben could be in just as much danger if we get separated now. If the CIA come after me, they'll also come after them for helping me, and because they'll want to find out what I might have told them. It might be better to let things blow over."

With a slight incline of his head, Harold considered John's words. "Very well then," he finally conceded. "I'm going to try and ascertain the current status of the investigation. Until then, it might indeed be a good idea for you to stay where you are ... at least for the time being." And with a last uncertain and borderline dismayed look he left the room.

"He means well, you know?" John said to Hannah after Harold had gone.

"He's also paranoid," Hannah snorted before running a soothing hand down her brother's trembling arm.

With a slight smirk, John looked up to Hannah. "You could accuse me of the same thing."

"Yeah, but you're better at gift-wrapping it," Hannah deadpanned. Turning serious, she took in John's fragile state. "You'd better lie down, buddy. You don't look so hot."

John nodded, allowing Hannah to help him get settled again. "Boy, I hope someone got the plate of the truck that ran me over," he wheezed.

Hannah froze mid-movement. Flashes of memories from two nights ago bombarded her brain, and she paled considerably.

"Hannie? What's the matter?" John asked, taking her hand and gently rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. "Come on, talk to me," he urged when she squeezed her eyes shut against some unwelcome image or other.

"I was there on that roof," she finally whispered. "I saw you get shot. I saw you go down. I saw you get shot and there was nothing I could do!" Bright tears tumbled from her eyes, and suddenly it all made sense to John: Why she suddenly showed up in the stairwell. Why she didn't ask how this had happened.

"Aw, Hannie, c'mere." Drawing her closer he wrapped an arm around her. "C'mon, sit," he prodded, tugging until she was seated next to him on his bed, tucked safely into his side. "I'm sorry you had to see that," he said softly and dropped a gentle kiss on her temple.

"I can't lose you again," Hannah replied in a small voice, placing her hand over his heart and leaning close so she could hear it beating.

John sighed. "Hannie," he began, a slightly warning undertone creeping into his voice.

"No. Please listen to me before you say anything," his sister interrupted him. She sat up, turning around to face him, and took his hand into both of hers. "I know you have a dangerous job, and probably an even more dangerous past. But that's not what I'm talking about." She paused for a moment, and her voice was very soft when she continued. "I wish you would start valuing your own life a little more. Whatever it was that made you think you're expendable – it's a lie."

"Hannah, everyone is expendable at some level," John interjected uncomfortably.

"But every life is precious and unique, irreplaceable. Yours, too! You're neither cannon fodder nor a killing machine, whatever the army and goodness knows who else might have drilled into your head." Hannah lifted one hand to his face and gently ran her thumb over his stubbly cheek. "You are made for more."

Swallowing hard, John averted his gaze. "That may have been true once, a long time ago," he replied thickly after a long pause. "But you don't know the things I've done ... I'm pretty sure I've used up all my second chances."

Hannah dropped her hand from his face, only to put it on his shoulder, giving it a careful, encouraging squeeze. "No, you haven't. Look, I realise that a great deal of what you do is about trying to redeem yourself. I get that. The thing about redemption, though ... you can't do it on your own. You can't pull yourself up by your bootstraps. Nobody can. The only thing you can do is let go of your guilt and leave it where it belongs."

John looked at her with red-rimmed eyes and smiled a little. "And here I was thinking you were too young to remember all the lessons from church."

Hannah laughed softly. "Who said the lessons stopped there?" She leaned forward and gave her brother a gentle hug. "I'm not the only one who loves you, John," she whispered in his ear, ignoring the wetness that spread along her cheek where it touched his.

Somehow, somewhere deep in his heart, and despite himself, John was starting to believe it.


	9. Healing Process

**Healing Process**

_A/N: A short episode tag for 1x12 "Legacy." Direct quotes from the episode are in italics as usual. Just a fluffy filler chapter because I felt it was needed._

"_Mr Reese ... Mr Reese, are you all right?"  
>"Wi- ... wishing gunshot wounds'd heal faster right about now."<em>

John was still watching Andrea Gutierrez' retreating form as she walked into her new life when he felt his cell phone buzzing. _No rest for the wicked, _he thought while tapping his earpiece. "Don't tell me we've already got a new number."

The weary tone had Harold frowning, at the same time convincing him he had made the right decision in doing what he had. "No, but I need you to go back to the safe house for me. There's some business I need you to take care of. You'll see when you get there."

John sighed. "All right, Finch. On my way." What was it he had told Andrea about his employer the other day? _"... The kind you'd call strange if he didn't have so much cash, so instead he's ... eccentric."_ Eccentric indeed.

*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*

The court house was only a few blocks from the safe house*, and normally John would have walked, but not today. Today he felt bruised and battered. Exhausted. Maybe that was the downside of being treated like an actual human being – it led to experiencing human feelings. Feelings like pain and fatigue ... but also feelings like love, belonging, and protectiveness. His life was no longer just about getting a job done, but about actually _living_, unconventional though this life might be. Go figure.

John hailed a cab and enjoyed the luxury of the ride, getting off a few hundred feet from his intended destination. Hoping that whatever Finch wanted done wouldn't take too long, or require an excessive amount of heavy lifting, he walked the rest of the way to the safe house and let himself in.

The sight that greeted him, however, was the very last thing he had expected on this never-ending day. There was delicious-smelling food on the beautifully decorated dinner table, and Hannah was just coming in from the small kitchen with a steaming pot of fresh coffee. John was so surprised, he didn't even move from where he had come to stand.

Spotting him, his sister sat down the coffee pot and came over to greet him with a warm smile and a gentle hug – the second one today. It still took some getting used to. "What's all this?" he finally managed, his voice slightly rough with unwelcome emotion.

Before Hannah could explain, Harold's voice piped up from a mobile phone on the table that was apparently on speaker: "I felt that a little R&R was in order for you, considering your recent significant injuries and the unforeseen violent nature of your latest assignment."

"So this business you needed taken care of ...?" John started to ask.

"Just a little project for the improvement of management-staff-relations." Did he hear Harold actually _smirking_ on the other end?! "Oh, and for your information: I expect Dr Silverstein to deliver a thorough report on the matter, so I count on your full cooperation. – Enjoy your evening, Mr Reese."

*POI*

_*Obviously I have no idea how far the safe house would be from the court house, so I'm invoking creative licence here._


	10. Fears

**Fears**

_**A/N: I'd like to thank everyone who has read, reviewed, followed, and favourited this story so far. If you can find the time and energy, I'd love to hear from you. – This chapter is a missing scene and coda to **_**1x15 "Blue Code", **_**so definitely spoilers for that. Enjoy!**_

Hannah answered the burner phone that had lived in her pocket ever since the CIA incident on the second ring. "What's he gone and done to himself today?" she asked without preamble.

"Good evening to you too, Dr Silverstein," Harold replied jovially. "And to answer your question: it appears _he_ walked into an inconveniently placed crowbar, proceeded to awkwardly cross the trajectory of a nine-millimetre-bullet, and ended up having to free himself from the boot of a burning car. Unfortunately, _he _is being quite stubborn about needing medical attention."

Hannah smirked into the phone. "Gimme," she said and waited for a beat before she heard John huffing on the other end of the line. "Shut up!" she ordered before he could even say a word.

"I didn't ..."

"And I said to shut up. – Are we doing this the easy or the hard way?"

"Hannah, I ..."

"Uh-uh. Put me on speaker."

"Hannie ..." Oh great, now he was whining.

"Don't Hannie me. Am I on speaker?"

"Yes, Dr Silverstein, you are."

Since Harold was sounding borderline amused, things at least weren't life-threatening. _Not anymore_, she added in her mind, because the combination of "crowbar" and "bullet" and "burning car" – or either one of these, really – was most certainly potentially lethal. So the next logical question was ...

"Where should I meet you and what should I bring?"

"I'll text you the address. And you might want to pick up a leash on the way."

"_Hysterical, Harold,"_ Hannah heard John grumbling in the background.

She smiled in relief while checking the text message from Finch. "Be there in twenty. And John ...?"

"What now?"

"Try not to walk into anything on the way."

*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*

Since Harold had badgered John into having his injuries properly treated by Hannah the evening before, the ex-CIA agent had been sullen and even more monosyllabic than usual. Although he had seemed compliant enough while the doctor was around, he had completely shut down afterwards. Harold was baffled – and clueless. He had an inkling that it had something to do with the case, but for the life of him couldn't figure out what had upset his employee so much.

_Something _started to dawn on him when John said: _"I'll keep an eye on him, make sure he stays safe and sound." _Considering that they were currently watching Detective Tully take his labouring wife to the car, and to the hospital, Harold surmised the clue might be _family_.

He made some light-hearted remark about the Detective hardly being able to stay "sound" with a crying baby in the house, but it fell sort of flat.

When John returned to the library later on, Harold decided to take the proverbial elephant in the room by the tusks. He didn't want to risk taking a wrong turn with his interference in John's life, so he needed to know the lay of the land. "Mr Reese, I'm under the impression that you resent my calling in Dr Silverstein to treat your injuries. I am sorry if I crossed some line there, but I was honestly worried about your health," he began carefully.

John dropped in a chair across the room and seemed to deflate a little. "I know," he replied quietly, though he didn't offer anything more.

"Please, Mr Reese. I feel I made some mistake here, and I _am _sorry for that, but I'm afraid you'll need to help me out here. Where did I go wrong?"

Slightly rubbing his forehead against the ache that had taken permanent residence there in the past twelve hours, John closed his eyes and sighed. "Look, Harold, I realise you didn't sign up for this when you hired me," he started to explain slowly, softly. "You were working under the assumption that I was completely unattached in this world. I never did anything to deny that, and you couldn't have known about Hannah, so it's not your fault."

"But you'd rather I keep her out of our ... operations?" Harold asked.

John sighed again. "Yes. No. I don't know. I guess that ship sailed the night Hannah watched me being gunned down by my former employers."

Finch's eyes widened slightly at this new piece of information. "I am sorry. I didn't realise–"

"What I'm trying to say is that this is a dilemma I have no idea how to solve. I can't deliberately cut myself out of Hannah's life again now that she knows I'm alive. She's been traumatised more than enough; I won't do that to her. She is well aware that I have a dangerous job in which every day could be my last, but that's a different matter. For better or worse, we're in each other's lives, and I won't change anything about that if I can help it. But if anything was to happen to her because of her attachment to me, I would never forgive myself."

For a moment the two men stared at each other, both taken aback by this uncharacteristic show of raw honesty and emotion. "Also," John added, almost as an afterthought, "if anything were to happen to Hannah, I would definitely lose my best friend in the process. Both are risks I am not willing to take."

Harold regarded him with an unreadable expression. He knew an ultimatum when faced with one. "So how do you suggest we proceed?" he finally asked.

John let out a long breath. "I have no idea. As I said, it's kind of an unsolvable dilemma."

"Why? You could just walk away from this job and never look back. I assure you, I am completely sympathetic to your situation, and there would be no hard feelings on my part whatsoever."

At Finch's words, John's eyebrows shot up and it was all he could do not to let out a snort. "Oh, _please_, Harold," he said instead with only a minimal amount of sarcasm. "Both you and I know that the only way I'm gonna leave this job is in a body bag."

"I am sorry you feel this way, John," the billionaire replied quietly.

The younger man was startled to hear the trace of hurt in his employer's voice and realised his mistake. "No, _I _am sorry, Harold. That is not what I meant. What I was trying to say is that I honestly can't imagine doing anything else with my life. I think what we're doing is a good thing. And I think both Hannah and Ben have proven their willingness to help, no questions asked. I don't know how to feel about that, but I am grateful. I just want them to be as safe as possible. They've both been through a lot. I don't want to cause them any more heartache."

A soft expression crossed Harold's face. "All right then. We'll work something out."

John nodded gratefully. "Thank you, Finch."

The other man smiled in return. "No. Thank _you_, Mr. Reese."


	11. Repercussions

_**A/N: Hello, my dear readers, time for a new chapter! Again, I'd like to thank everyone who read, reviewed or put this story on alert. I'm always excited to hear from you!**_

_**Not much action in this one, but a few missing scenes from 1x17 "Baby Blue", so obviously there will be spoilers for that episode. Also, this chapter makes reference to chapters 3 and 5 of this story, so you might want to have a peek at those first.**_

_**Warnings: As I stated in chapters 3 and 5, there is a lot of violence implied in the backstory. There will be no explicit descriptions, but please take the T rating seriously. I'm not particularly good with trigger warnings, mainly because real life doesn't have any (and neither does regular literature), but if (trauma-related) infertility is an issue for you, you might want to skip this chapter.**_

**Repercussions**

"I don't want to know. More importantly, I _can't_ know. Do you have _any_ idea what trouble I'll be in if this gets out?"

Hannah was furious – and John was confused. This was the same woman who'd gone against police, CIA, and all kinds of laws to save his life in a clandestine, hare-brained stunt just a few months back. He had been _certain _that treating an ill baby was something at which she wouldn't even bat an eyelid. Instead she'd gone right for his jugular (and for Harold's, for that matter). John had the distinct feeling he had missed something important.

"But her chart said she needed regular check-ups for a few weeks because the bronchitis had been so bad it was bordering on pneumonia," Harold tried to reason.

"Well, you should have considered that before kidnapping her, then," Hannah snapped.

"You're not going to help her?" Her brother's tone was incredulous.

"Did I say that?" the doctor shot back. She drew a deep breath, glancing sideways at Leila who was playing happily on a blanket on the living room floor of the safe house.

"This goes against everything I stand for as a doctor," she hissed while picking up the child, gently placing her on the table and pulling off her shirt in order to listen to her lungs. "She needs to be in proper care, and with her family, not ... not _here_."

"We _are_ trying to get Leila back to her family," Harold explained with uncharacteristic fervour, "and we _are _doing our best to take good care of her."

"Lungs are clear," Hannah murmured, no longer bothering to argue with the two men in the room. "Temperature's normal. I'll leave you a multivitamin to bolster her immune system," she added in a detached voice, pulling a small bottle from her bag. "Ten drops three times a day. Put it on a spoonful of food, or in her bottle, whatever works best."

The doctor re-dressed the little girl and tried to put her back down on her toy blanket. Leila, however, had taken an interest in the soft, wavy long hair of the woman, stroking it with reverent amazement and smiling a disarming smile.

A look that could only be described as pure agony crossed Hannah's face when Leila threw her chubby little arms around her neck and cuddled into her shoulder. She swallowed hard, rapidly blinking back the moisture in her eyes, and knelt down on the blanket. "Come on, Leila, Mr Bear wants to play with you." The doctor's voice was barely audible, strangled with tears that threatened to make an appearance any moment now.

All three adults breathed a silent sigh of relief when Leila let go without a fuss, grabbing the teddy bear that Hannah was holding out to her, and waving the pretty doctor good-bye.

"Hannah ..." John pleaded, but his sister just shook her head.

"_Don't_!" Snatching her bag off the chair where she had put it ten minutes ago upon entering the room, she brushed past the two men without so much as a glance back at her little patient. "I'll have Ben stop by tomorrow to check on Leila," she choked out, and then she was gone.

Dumbfounded, Harold stared at John. "What on earth was that?" he asked, his voice even more perplexed than his look.

The tall man had gone very quiet, and very pale. When he replied, it sounded strained and dejected. "That was me being the world's greatest idiot."

*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*

When Dr Al-Khalil came to check on the little patient the next evening, it was all over. It was _after _Leila had been kidnapped to be sold abroad, _after _she had been reclaimed by John, _after _their coming close to freezing in that refrigerated truck, _after _a good police officer had been shot because of John's unholy alliance with Elias, and _after _Joss had cut her ties with them as a consequence. Of course, the good doctor knew none of this when he entered the safe house.

The first thing he noticed was the crying baby. As an intern he had worked in a children's hospital for half a year, becoming quite adept at discerning the different ways children of different ages cried for different reasons. This one didn't sound like she was in pain, or hungry, or in a wet nappy. If anything, she sounded overtired.

A few seconds later John came into sight. He was wandering through the house, tenderly rocking Leila in his arms in an attempt to calm her down. "Hello, Ben. Thanks for coming," John greeted his best friend, hitching the tiny girl a little higher on his chest and tucking her head under his chin. "It's all right, Leila," he said in a low, soothing voice. "You're safe now."

The doctor slightly raised his eyebrows at this last comment, wondering what had transpired before he arrived but considering it best not to ask. "Hannah said this little one needed a second check-up?"

"Yeah," John sighed, rubbing slow, gentle circles on the sniffling baby's back. "She's had a bit of a rough day, too," he added.

_Wait – did the man actually sound guilty? _"Wanna tell me what happened?" the doctor asked while reaching out for the child.

His friend put the baby in his arms. With his hands suddenly strangely empty, he rubbed his neck in a helpless gesture. "I screwed up. Big time," he admitted.

Ben looked down at Leila, who was looking up at him in turn, her distress momentarily forgotten. "Hey there," he smiled at his little patient. "Feeling icky, are you?" Then, without breaking his focus, he said quietly to John: "I guess you're not only talking about Leila here, are you?"

The man in question turned away to stare out of the window. For the longest time, the only sounds in the house were Leila's babbling and Ben's practised movements around his patient.

"I didn't mean to hurt her," John said at last, and his best friend wasn't quite sure if he was talking about Hannah, or Leila, or both, or someone else entirely.

"I know how badly she was injured in the assault. I read her medical file. I just ..."

Benjamin pressed his lips into a thin line and, not wanting to go there just yet, finished his examination. Eventually he declared: "Leila's all right. Her temperature is a little on the low side, but no cause for alarm. Feed her some sweet snacks for extra energy and keep her warm for a few days, and she should be fine."

Getting the tiny clothes back on the baby's wriggling body with his uncooperative, slightly aching fingers was something of a challenge, but the doctor managed and considered it a small victory. He picked Leila up, planning to pass her over to John, but she snuggled into his chest, grabbing his soft jumper with a chubby little fist and immediately falling asleep with a contented sigh.

Once more, silence descended over the house. Catching on to the lack of sound in the room, John turned around and took in the picture before him with a pained expression in his eyes. He had meant to do the right thing – he and Harold both –, meant to rescue Leila and return her to her family. Instead, all he had managed was to hurt the most important person in his life, estrange someone whom he looked up to and had hoped to win as a friend one day, and put an innocent child in lethal danger. And John was sure that if the man in front of him learned the whole extent of what he had done, he would lose his best friend, too.

_What a mess. _Suddenly feeling beyond tired, John pushed himself away from the windowsill, dragged himself across the room and slumped down in one corner of the sofa. All he wanted right now was to turn back the clock to two days ago and do it all differently.

Ben seemed to read his thoughts, because he came over, sat down next to the other man and, carefully readjusting the sleeping child in his arms, put a hand on John's shoulder. "When was the last time you ate or slept?" the doctor asked, softly but firmly.

Scrubbing a weary hand down his face, John shook his head. "Don't remember," he mumbled with his eyes closed. Suddenly he felt a hand closing around his forearm and his arm being guided down and slightly turned outward.

"How did that happen?" the doctor's concerned voice asked. Forcing his eyes open, the former soldier dropped his gaze to where his best friend's hand rested a few inches above his bruised and bloodied wrist.

"Trying to get out of a pair of handcuffs." He neither had the energy nor the will to come up with a cover story.

"Looks like the start of an infection. Show me your other wrist?"

Without arguing, John unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. The doctor made a disapproving sound when he saw the raw, slightly weeping wounds.

"Let me take care of that." Ben stood and put Leila in her crib in the corner of the room, careful not to wake the sleeping child. Then he collected his bag and a few supplies from the bathroom before returning to his friend on the sofa.

In complete silence, Ben tended to John's wounds, cleaning them, covering them in antibiotic cream, bandaging them at last. At some point during the procedure, the injured man fell asleep. The doctor retrieved a pillow and a blanket from the linen closet and made his friend comfortable without waking him. Finally he settled down in an armchair next to the couch, content to keep watch over the former soldier and the child.

*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*

The sunset was casting a warm glow through the window when John stirred awake. He was surprised to see Ben in the armchair, reading a medical journal.

"You're still here?" he enquired, voice rough from sleep.

"I had nowhere else to be for a while, and both you and Leila needed a nap," the doctor shrugged. "She woke up a while ago, and I fed and changed her. She's playing now."

John sat up, running both hands through his short hair and wincing slightly when the movement pulled at his sore wrists.

"I made coffee. Would you like some? There's also a bag of fresh deli sandwiches in the fridge. Your boss brought them when he stopped by an hour ago to check on you and Leila."

"Thanks," John replied, stifling a yawn and trying to muster the energy to drag himself to the kitchen to get coffee and a sandwich.

Ben leaned over and stopped him with a brief pat on the knee. "Stay here, I'll bring the food and coffee over."

Ten minutes later, the two men had made a sizeable dent in the impressive assortment of sandwiches. "Does Hannah know you're still here?" John asked between bites.

"Yeah, I texted her right after Finch left." He fell silent for a moment before adding, "She's not really mad at you, you know?"

John snorted. "Coulda fooled me. Not that I blame her."

Ben smiled pensively. "You know, you two are very much alike. Always needing to help, to change things for the better. And nothing makes you madder than being helpless."

His friend studied him with a calculating expression. "Your point being?"

The doctor put down his half-eaten sandwich, wiped his mouth with a napkin and took a sip of coffee before leaning back in his chair and taking a deep breath. "Did you know that I proposed to Hannah a while back?" he eventually said after a long pause.

The quiet non-sequitur was the last thing John had expected his best friend to say. Consequently, his dumbfounded reply turned out somewhat unoriginal. "You did?"

Ben smiled sadly. "I did. I did, and she turned me down. She even tried breaking up with me, _set me free_ – her words, not mine. She said she didn't want me to wake up one morning and regret marrying a woman who couldn't give me any children. I told her that I wasn't even sure I wanted children – what with my post-traumatic stress disorder and all –, and that we could always adopt, but she was adamant. I didn't want to lose her, so I dropped the topic."

By now, John had recovered a little and tried to figure out the meaning behind the softly spoken words. "Why are you telling me all this?" he finally asked, his eyes boring into Ben's.

"First of all I want you to know that whatever transpired with Hannah yesterday is not your fault. John, she _always_ avoids treating babies, at all costs. She even has a paediatrician at the clinic so she doesn't have to. It might have been an unfortunate situation yesterday, and, yes, she was very upset, but you couldn't know and you shouldn't blame yourself."

"And secondly?" John asked after digesting his best friend's word for a moment.

"Secondly, I need you to know that I'm very serious about Hannah. I love her more than I can say, John. However long it may take, I want to be with her for the rest of my life, and I will wait for as long as she needs to get over her fears." Benjamin's eyes shone with so much love and devotion that a tiny, warm flame in John's heart started to burn a little brighter at the sincere words.

"One more thing. I don't know the backstory about Leila, and about what you do, but I can see it's complicated and messy. I can also see that you're doubting and second-guessing yourself, so let me remind you of something we were taught in the Army: sometimes you can only pick the lesser of two evils because doing nothing would be even worse. Of course, that doesn't change the fact that it's still an evil. Sometimes the price for getting the job done is painfully high. And sometimes there is no winning."

John stared at Ben for a long moment. "You're right, they taught us that. What they didn't teach us, though, is how to live with the guilt."


	12. New Alliances

_**A/N: Too lazy to invent a crazy storyline with a different hospital, I dug out my creative licence and put John in St. George's hospital ... you know, the one from 1x10 "Number Crunch". I hope you don't mind. Spoilers for 1x20 "Matsya Nyaya". Not much plot, just picking up some loose ends for further development. A tiny bit of Careese for you lovely shippers, but only if you tilt your head and squint.**_

_**Disclaimer as per usual: I don't own Person of Interest and any of its characters, just my OCs whom I shamelessly inserted in the amazing story brought to us by the fantastic creators of the series. I don't make any money from this, but I enjoy writing this story immensely, so if that counts as profit, sue me.**_

**New Alliances**

Hannah thought her heart might stop when the paramedics rolled the two gurneys into her emergency room. It was one of the weeks when she was doing shifts at the hospital, and it had been mildly crazy so far. However, nothing could have prepared her for the sight of her brother lying there still and pale and unconscious ... again.

Reaching deep for some professional detachment, Hannah donned fresh gloves and stepped forward to meet the paramedics. Medical terminology was flung back and forth, and within less than a minute the doctor had a fairly good idea of what was going on and what needed to be done.

Giving John a quick once-over, she determined that his condition was not life-threatening. No sooner had she finished her instructions to the nurses than the heart monitor on the other patient started to blare, leaving her no choice but to abandon her brother instantly.

The doctor realised quickly that they were fighting a losing battle and what the eventual outcome would be, but there were necessary steps to take and protocols to adhere to. So, when she finally called the time of death, she was neither surprised nor overly frustrated. The only thing that remained for Hannah in moments like these was the sober and humbling acknowledgement that, despite all medical advancement, it was not human beings who had the final word over life and death.

Discarding her gloves after a few seconds of solemn reflection, the doctor started to step over to her other patient, only to freeze in mid-motion. For a few moments she couldn't decide whether she should be alarmed, amused, or touched by the scene playing out in front of her.

At first she was startled to see the female police officer who had been there that night on the hospital roof, and later on during their hasty retreat from the parking garage, approaching her brother. As much as Hannah wanted to do something, _anything_, about the impending encounter, she drew a complete blank.

Then she just watched, thoroughly mesmerised by the interaction between her brother and the policewoman. She saw the gentle hands steadying John in his ill-advised attempt to get up. She saw her brother's fingers curl trustingly around the woman's arm, his eyes raised to meet hers, both of them apparently not noticing anything that was going on around them for the slightest moment. She saw the dark-haired woman with the chocolate-coloured skin say something to the pale man with the salt-and-pepper hair, who responded by getting up on unsteady legs. She saw the petite police officer pull a blanket around the tall man's shoulders, her hand keeping it in place while at the same time providing support and comfort – and finally she saw her brother snake an arm around the woman's waist, drawing her slightly against his side and walking off with her, away from the prying eyes of the other police officers present in the bustling emergency room.

*POI*POI*POI*POI*POI*

The whole scene didn't take more than a minute, but it was deeply intriguing. With a small, fond smile, Hannah tore herself from the spot she had been rooted to, busying herself for a few minutes with grabbing the supplies she would need to patch up her brother. When she thought enough time had passed so she could follow the pair without drawing suspicion from anyone, she shouted to a nurse that she was leaving for her lunch break and to page her if she was needed.

It didn't take her long to find the two runaways in a quiet corridor off to the side of the ER. "I think you forgot something, Mister," Hannah announced in her best doctor's voice, making both her brother and the police officer jump.

To his credit, John's mask slipped back into place within moments. "And what might that be, doctor?" he asked with the lopsided grin that he knew could melt any woman's heart.

"Your I.V., for starters." His sister held up a bag with a clear liquid and pulled out a sealed package with tubing from the pocket of her lab coat with her other hand.

"Wait, I know you!" the policewoman threw in when she recovered from her surprise at being caught.

"I doubt that," Hannah remarked drily while re-attaching the I.V. to John's arm.

"No, I do. You were with John and Harold the night–"

"I suggest you do not finish that sentence, detective, or I might just remember where _I_ saw _you_ first." The doctor's steely grey-blue eyes held the policewoman's gaze for a long moment before proceeding to clean the wound on John's shoulder.

The former CIA operative watched the exchange, calculating the risk or benefit of telling the former army interrogator the truth. Before he could make up his mind, he noticed the moment all the pieces fell into place for Detective Carter.

"Oh. _Oh!_ She's your ... you two are ..."

Hannah looked John in the eyes, silently giving him permission to disclose whatever he felt necessary.

"She's my sister," he whispered, giving the policewoman a look that conveyed beyond the shadow of a doubt that this was strictly classified information.

"Dr. Hannah Silverstein," Hannah introduced herself, her voice only marginally louder than her brother's.

"Detective Jocelyn Carter," the other woman replied quietly. An expression of shame crossed her face when she remembered their first meeting all those months ago. "I'm sorry about–"

Again Hannah interrupted her. "Please don't apologise. I remember quite distinctly what you did for us that night. I never got the chance to thank you, though. So ..."

John let out a sharp hiss when Hannah pulled the edges of the shallow bullet wound closed and taped them in place with butterfly strips.

"Sorry, I'm done in a second." The doctor completed her handiwork with a large adhesive bandage to the back of his shoulder and helped him into a clean shirt.

"Where did you nick that from?" John teased his sister while buttoning the pale blue cotton shirt that was – unsurprisingly – just the right size.

"Need to know," Hannah deadpanned, disposing of the used material in a nearby biohazard bin. She checked John's I.V. one more time, pulled the blanket back around his shoulders and briefly squeezed his uninjured arm.

"I'll be back in half an hour to remove the I.V. Detective Carter, please make sure my brother doesn't run off before that. He needs what is in there," Hannah explained, pointing to the bag with the clear liquid. Then her features softened, as did her voice. "He might not acknowledge it or show it, but his body has suffered a shock, even if his mind hasn't."

Joss gave her a warm smile. "That won't be a problem. We'll have to go over some stuff anyway."

"Good. Thank you." Hannah paused for a second, making it clear that she wasn't just talking about this very moment. "And if you ever need anything ..." She fished out a card from her breast pocket. "Give me a call." Hannah glanced at her brother who was following the exchange with what looked like nervous interest. She couldn't help but grin at the anxious frown on his face when she said: "And let's meet for a cup of coffee one of these days. We could compare notes, you know ..."

_**A/N 2: Thank you for reading! I'd love to know what you think, so – since I'm not a mind reader – feel free to drop me a note **_


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